Were only people...just people. You shouldn't let it bother you about what others think about your poetry...or you heritage or anything else about you....although its hard sometimes, I agree. What most people don't get is that they could never fully contemplate what it is like being someone else...so they can never really relate. All I have to say to the critics out there....is to OPEN YOUR EYES. What means the world to one person might mean shit to someone else...so keep that in mind before you decide to drop your hammer of judgement on somebody else. I write to express what I am feeling...as do most of you I'm sure. I don't expect anybody to understand EVERYTHING I write (if anything), but I don't care because they are not me....they have not lived my life, felt my pain, or seen the world through my eyes. I like your poetry exhale...I think you are a very talented writer.
Criticism when judiciously applied is a synonym for literary appraisal based on the practical application of theoretical methodologies to the reading of texts. It's essential that literature is evaluated with some attempt at trained reading or the work dies through lack of interest: especially poetry, that doesn't sell. When it's not for the marketplace, it's for the mind and heart, and it lives through constant re-reading and most importantly an understanding of one's interactive engagement in reading. We need to know what it is about a text that makes it relate to us, and we need to apply method to ask the right kinds of questions about language, form, structure, text, intertextuality and how a text can mean so many different things to so many different readers at so many different times and places.
However, there's such a thing as injudicious criticism too, and that reads like bad journalism.
In order to understand a poem, consideration of the feelings of the actual poet are not important, in themselves, prior to the moment of textual production, but if those feelings are successfully expressed in a poem and translate to the reader, they are transcendent. If the poet constructs a first person "I" narrator who expresses their pain beautifully, then this narrative voice is important. But the narrative "I" is NEVER the same as the actual subjectivity of the poet. There's always an arbitrariness between the two.
Literary criticism often seeks to acknowledge HOW the forms and themes of a poem suggest deep implications of intent and effect, which create through language an attempted mimesis of human experience. And in concentrating on the language of a text we come to a greater understanding of shared human experience. Criticism, humanely used, is essential for comprehending the processes, joys, and cultural importance of reading as a means of individual and collective social understanding and expression.
So, I'm defending criticism whilst saying there are some bad critics out there!
I'd be a hypocrite....if I writ aught else
but yet we have to have that warm and cuddly feeling don't we
but I'm not a hypocrite...it's something I won't be....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by nailz100 I write to express what I am feeling...as do most of you I'm sure. I don't expect anybody to understand EVERYTHING I write (if anything), but I don't care because they are not me....they have not lived my life, felt my pain, or seen the world through my eyes.
It is useless expecting things to happen. You´re sitting on the thoughts that you want to forget but you keep asking them questions that are not relevant for this time of being. You are here and you can choose; choose to write your words or choose to read your words. One or the other, it will always bring you back to the same spot and you will have to start all over again. First write, then read…write, read….write, read….
I can only laugh at my own face when I see it´s reflection on the ceiling every morning. Morning… so many of them wrote about this moment, so many will do the same in the next few lives. None will be able to construct the sounds to suit the best. Should I even bother?
If I got it right, then I must be here because my mind wants to prove that it can make terrible mistakes and choices, but wants some practice in dealing with the consequences. I´m curious, why does it need so much practice? Surprisingly, I´m ok in this moment. I know that this mind has chosen my head and therefore I´m guilty too. Perhaps ´guilt´ isn´t the right word in this sentence. I persuaded my mind to make the choice and so I´m trying to find the best way to avoid the punishment which always falls on my body. Strange, but true.
I cannot scream, and so I write. I regret spending lines on justifying a few words to make my mind less vulnerable. Meanwhile, I missed the butterflies resting on the blooms on my balcony. So many colours that could´ve made my day worthwhile, combined with the soft breeze of summer. Following the traces of too many others in the past, I spoiled a moment and I will never be able to bring it back. It´s like the first kiss… the absolute anticipation in the seconds before it happens and which seem like ages. You cannot fight the contraction of the muscles in your stomach, it makes you feel unpleasantly but still you couldn´t remember of a better feeling. It is the fear, the annoyance of a certain impulse that makes you almost sick, nevertheless, if given the opportunity, you´d want enjoy it´s presence all your life.
I write to make my life an everlasting first kiss…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
It is written,
and so a life
becomes a kiss
felt
beyond our time.
Write more for us,
exhale your sweet breath upon us
and may eternity
feel the electricity of touch
in words that reach
beyond the quivering lip
of form
My soul has never been more desperate for a rest
Than after composition I´ve just read.
I met the butterflies again,
I wish you all could see the same.
So calm, so peaceful in mind the thoughts are dwelling,
Enjoy the day and being careful of a single sunray.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Feels like he wants to talk to me,
And when he does
It´s like a wrapped up cage, nothing to see.
A mysterious marvel – his name would say,
And yet no evidence
To draw his face, up to this day.
Caught in a moment when this white screen wouldn´t speak,
I feel ill at ease
No wish to play the puzzling play of hide and seek.
It´s his presence that can put me back on grounds,
Touch my ghost
And give the energy to seize another chance.
Still wondering about the glimpse of recent set,
Was it just occurrence
Or is the purpose of a message to project?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
It happened quite some time ago,
When I found the other pole
And so I run no more.
It is a comfort of the absolute control
I would never want to let it go!
Good and bad, both
Creating an amazing fairy-tale,
It would be odd
If the link should never fail -
The space that´s left
Waiting empty to be filled in,
Only a friend can heft
The weight of love and not let it sink.
I turn to you
And my bid is decent,
My friendship too
With none other false sense.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Everybody going somewhere…
Am I the one that is still stuck here?
The rush hour of the 90s I´ve survived,
But queue is getting longer, i´ve been deprived
Of my right to pause a moment.
No one commend me for being prudent,
They wouldn´t read my lines between the lines,
All I had to say, the only sign.
Very gently now, trying to touch the minds,
Some say it is ok, some say it´s fine.
They might not be so honest after all,
To keep it for myself should be my goal.
I am raising hands towards the sky,
Exhaling everything that´s let my lungs run dry.
…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by exhale They wouldn´t read my lines between the lines,
All I had to say, the only sign.
Very gently now, trying to touch the minds,
Some say it is ok, some say it´s fine.
They might not be so honest after all,
To keep it for myself should be my goal.
…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Bend down upon the bank. See how the bright
River shimmers, moving to your art.
Each time you breathe upon the stream, your goal
Comes nearer. See the river's quaking soul!
For one more reason I will sing to you,
Confess my sins, my sorrows cause I´m sad,
Waiting calmly in this state,
Rolling on and on the ideas in my head
In slow motion, cautiously, not to overlook one bit.
Constantly superimposing words you said,
When we drove along the waterside
And laughed, I noticed something else was there to share;
But it was concealed as you wouldn´t want to make mistake.
I shall so faithfully believe,
That this cohesion for all times should last, so fast
You have changed the tone of utterance…
I don´t want to die in silence.
I´ve shared everything I have
Now everybody knows what I was and what I am,
But I doubt they are my fans.
I will still write,
Give more and more until I´m out
Of every slice of my heart;
And you will hold the knife,
Looking at me bending forward, pleading for forgiveness
Being the other part…
Of what?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I didn´t ask for you to hold my hand,
I didn´t look for drug to quench the sore,
In hoping we could find the common pace of walk,
You counting my steps and I count yours,
My words expressed too much than actually allowed.
It´s true,
The starting moment was not the best of all,
But why condemn the first line of a verse
If days to come can promise so much more…
I will learn and I will go -
didn´t I say so?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Another one has gone
Away from me like I was the worst disease;
I´m resting in the corner of a back yard
Making shapes of clouds up in the sky,
Hmmmm….this one is pretty hard.
What if I fly up there and push the other one aside
Cause it´s body isn´t quite alike,
It´s unusual and different, not my design;
But hey! Wouldn´t nature be pissed off
If I just told the guy to take time off?
It´s not his defect that makes this picture so imperfect,
It´s just my mind…
I should rather try to find a perfect space among the guys
Make his shape step out and shine.
I haven´t noticed it before,
But his white - so innocent so poor,
I admit - I was too cold.
He must have been around the world,
Seen so much, sensed the touch
Of time and space and every face,
I should have known.
Why am I here, still alone?
Another one has gone
Away from me like I was the worst disease…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
if I had lived in the early modern period then I´d be the author of the following stanza
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
call her one, me other fly,
we are tapers too, and at our own cost die,
and we in us find the Eagle and the Dove.
The Phoenix riddle, hath more witt
by us; we two being one, are it.
So to one neutral thing both sexes fit,
we die and rise the same, and prove
mysterious by this love.
(Donne)
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
i am not worthy if this thread,
i do not print words
that sing to words,
i write figures on figures,
minding sums instead,
my thoughts are wasted,
spent on 50 notes
of no real value,
id rather lose a mind to writers,
poets winding words on reels,
sailing my consciousness,
to the otherside of dreams.
thankyou for your inspirations exhale and finsbury, i get tingles from the beauty of your writing. ive been lost among this thread for hours now, reading and re-reading. (i was particularly amused by the literary debate in the middle!)
lol lucy
...lose your mind,
and then you'll find,
the dreams you lost....
Originally posted by exhale There is no need for you to apologize,
I shall rather consider myself privileged as your ´distant´ protégée.
...I once wrote.
this is not MY thread. I´m posting my poems for people to read and relate, otherwise I´d just keep them for myself.
it´s great if people response to my words; good, bad - doesn´t matter but it´s always a sign that you´ve noticed... something.
thank you LL for your contribution, you´re always welcome.
the sun is shining again for me on this cloudy day
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
While balancing my coffee through the crowds,
Trying, in the faces, similarities to find,
Hitting shoulders, repeating: my apologies´,
I feel Venus cursing people just for fun again.
“For a woman to make love is ill”
Musella cried so desperate in want for him,
In this different world of ours that is still
An emblem of a confused woman´s mind
Cause most of them could Lissius be named,
Racists, sexists, homophobic and too proud.
It doesn´t happen every day
That people would admit their simple way;
He found the courage in his words
To put down the true facts about his girl:
Compared her eyes to nothing like the sun,
Looked for red in her cheeks but the colour´s gone,
Her smile, her breath couldn´t change the image,
So incomplete, so normal is her posture.
I´m sure it´s possible to find oneself in his lines,
In the survey of his maiden´s sight
But could you summarize your love in a brief, short verse,
Confess your soul with nothing more but a couplet?
It is fascinating – he still knows
That prejudice would always take main roles
That every one of us would always be compared
To diamonds, pearls and golden coins;
And we do the same…
I believe the author would prefer
To publish happy ending of the play,
If only she would be allowed to say:
Hey, I love YOU, I love you not!
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I like the symbolic synchronicity in this, the metropolitan consciousness's mixture of the classical, the early modern and the modernist/postmodernist. You know, I feel you should continue exploring this fusion of elements like this in further poems. Perhaps such similar work might even be further enriched by specific reference to a particular European city such as London, Paris, Berlin or Rome! I often like to see poems that allude to geographical as well as psychological and intellectual/emotional settings. They don't have to be 'realist'; they can be as abstract as you like!
Thanks for this. I enjoyed it and caught the references! They were nicely worked into the text.
there´s actually little difference in the periods of time,
just another disguise ...
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
… window cleaner early in the morning,
… clank of milk bottles at the door
… restless sea stroking blue stones at the coast of Aldeburgh
… melody of silence in the green fields near Rickinghall
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by exhale … window cleaner early in the morning,
… clank of milk bottles at the door
… restless sea stroking blue stones at the coast of Aldeburgh
… melody of silence in the green fields near Rickinghall
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by exhale … window cleaner early in the morning,
… clank of milk bottles at the door
… restless sea stroking blue stones at the coast of Aldeburgh
… melody of silence in the green fields near Rickinghall
Oh! exhale lovely! I can hear the melody of silence.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
I know Aldeburgh. It's only sixty miles from Cambridge. It's the very England that many of the Georgian Poets of 1910-1935 wrote about. It inspires wistfulness and its memory in the mind becomes one with all elegy.
You know, Sir Philip Sidney coined the word "conversation", as Katherine Duncan-Jones is wont to point out. Sidney went to Cambridge, I think. So did Nick Drake, for a year. He said,
"If songs were lines in a conversation
The situation would be fine."
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots "If songs were lines in a conversation
The situation would be fine."
Well, then, let us all make our poetry converse.
amen, Prof. Fins!
Aldeburgh, and Southwold too
if I hadn´t touched the grounds, I´d not believe
that these places actually exist
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by dyaogirl Oh! exhale lovely! I can hear the melody of silence.
is this dyaogirl responding to my words?
wow,
thank you
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Comments
Criticism when judiciously applied is a synonym for literary appraisal based on the practical application of theoretical methodologies to the reading of texts. It's essential that literature is evaluated with some attempt at trained reading or the work dies through lack of interest: especially poetry, that doesn't sell. When it's not for the marketplace, it's for the mind and heart, and it lives through constant re-reading and most importantly an understanding of one's interactive engagement in reading. We need to know what it is about a text that makes it relate to us, and we need to apply method to ask the right kinds of questions about language, form, structure, text, intertextuality and how a text can mean so many different things to so many different readers at so many different times and places.
However, there's such a thing as injudicious criticism too, and that reads like bad journalism.
In order to understand a poem, consideration of the feelings of the actual poet are not important, in themselves, prior to the moment of textual production, but if those feelings are successfully expressed in a poem and translate to the reader, they are transcendent. If the poet constructs a first person "I" narrator who expresses their pain beautifully, then this narrative voice is important. But the narrative "I" is NEVER the same as the actual subjectivity of the poet. There's always an arbitrariness between the two.
Literary criticism often seeks to acknowledge HOW the forms and themes of a poem suggest deep implications of intent and effect, which create through language an attempted mimesis of human experience. And in concentrating on the language of a text we come to a greater understanding of shared human experience. Criticism, humanely used, is essential for comprehending the processes, joys, and cultural importance of reading as a means of individual and collective social understanding and expression.
So, I'm defending criticism whilst saying there are some bad critics out there!
but yet we have to have that warm and cuddly feeling don't we
but I'm not a hypocrite...it's something I won't be....
It is useless expecting things to happen. You´re sitting on the thoughts that you want to forget but you keep asking them questions that are not relevant for this time of being. You are here and you can choose; choose to write your words or choose to read your words. One or the other, it will always bring you back to the same spot and you will have to start all over again. First write, then read…write, read….write, read….
I can only laugh at my own face when I see it´s reflection on the ceiling every morning. Morning… so many of them wrote about this moment, so many will do the same in the next few lives. None will be able to construct the sounds to suit the best. Should I even bother?
If I got it right, then I must be here because my mind wants to prove that it can make terrible mistakes and choices, but wants some practice in dealing with the consequences. I´m curious, why does it need so much practice? Surprisingly, I´m ok in this moment. I know that this mind has chosen my head and therefore I´m guilty too. Perhaps ´guilt´ isn´t the right word in this sentence. I persuaded my mind to make the choice and so I´m trying to find the best way to avoid the punishment which always falls on my body. Strange, but true.
I cannot scream, and so I write. I regret spending lines on justifying a few words to make my mind less vulnerable. Meanwhile, I missed the butterflies resting on the blooms on my balcony. So many colours that could´ve made my day worthwhile, combined with the soft breeze of summer. Following the traces of too many others in the past, I spoiled a moment and I will never be able to bring it back. It´s like the first kiss… the absolute anticipation in the seconds before it happens and which seem like ages. You cannot fight the contraction of the muscles in your stomach, it makes you feel unpleasantly but still you couldn´t remember of a better feeling. It is the fear, the annoyance of a certain impulse that makes you almost sick, nevertheless, if given the opportunity, you´d want enjoy it´s presence all your life.
I write to make my life an everlasting first kiss…
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
and so a life
becomes a kiss
felt
beyond our time.
Write more for us,
exhale your sweet breath upon us
and may eternity
feel the electricity of touch
in words that reach
beyond the quivering lip
of form
into the
precious
bosom of experience.
Than after composition I´ve just read.
I met the butterflies again,
I wish you all could see the same.
So calm, so peaceful in mind the thoughts are dwelling,
Enjoy the day and being careful of a single sunray.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
And when he does
It´s like a wrapped up cage, nothing to see.
A mysterious marvel – his name would say,
And yet no evidence
To draw his face, up to this day.
Caught in a moment when this white screen wouldn´t speak,
I feel ill at ease
No wish to play the puzzling play of hide and seek.
It´s his presence that can put me back on grounds,
Touch my ghost
And give the energy to seize another chance.
Still wondering about the glimpse of recent set,
Was it just occurrence
Or is the purpose of a message to project?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
When I found the other pole
And so I run no more.
It is a comfort of the absolute control
I would never want to let it go!
Good and bad, both
Creating an amazing fairy-tale,
It would be odd
If the link should never fail -
The space that´s left
Waiting empty to be filled in,
Only a friend can heft
The weight of love and not let it sink.
I turn to you
And my bid is decent,
My friendship too
With none other false sense.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Am I the one that is still stuck here?
The rush hour of the 90s I´ve survived,
But queue is getting longer, i´ve been deprived
Of my right to pause a moment.
No one commend me for being prudent,
They wouldn´t read my lines between the lines,
All I had to say, the only sign.
Very gently now, trying to touch the minds,
Some say it is ok, some say it´s fine.
They might not be so honest after all,
To keep it for myself should be my goal.
I am raising hands towards the sky,
Exhaling everything that´s let my lungs run dry.
…
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Bend down upon the bank. See how the bright
River shimmers, moving to your art.
Each time you breathe upon the stream, your goal
Comes nearer. See the river's quaking soul!
Confess my sins, my sorrows cause I´m sad,
Waiting calmly in this state,
Rolling on and on the ideas in my head
In slow motion, cautiously, not to overlook one bit.
Constantly superimposing words you said,
When we drove along the waterside
And laughed, I noticed something else was there to share;
But it was concealed as you wouldn´t want to make mistake.
I shall so faithfully believe,
That this cohesion for all times should last, so fast
You have changed the tone of utterance…
I don´t want to die in silence.
I´ve shared everything I have
Now everybody knows what I was and what I am,
But I doubt they are my fans.
I will still write,
Give more and more until I´m out
Of every slice of my heart;
And you will hold the knife,
Looking at me bending forward, pleading for forgiveness
Being the other part…
Of what?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I didn´t look for drug to quench the sore,
In hoping we could find the common pace of walk,
You counting my steps and I count yours,
My words expressed too much than actually allowed.
It´s true,
The starting moment was not the best of all,
But why condemn the first line of a verse
If days to come can promise so much more…
I will learn and I will go -
didn´t I say so?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Away from me like I was the worst disease;
I´m resting in the corner of a back yard
Making shapes of clouds up in the sky,
Hmmmm….this one is pretty hard.
What if I fly up there and push the other one aside
Cause it´s body isn´t quite alike,
It´s unusual and different, not my design;
But hey! Wouldn´t nature be pissed off
If I just told the guy to take time off?
It´s not his defect that makes this picture so imperfect,
It´s just my mind…
I should rather try to find a perfect space among the guys
Make his shape step out and shine.
I haven´t noticed it before,
But his white - so innocent so poor,
I admit - I was too cold.
He must have been around the world,
Seen so much, sensed the touch
Of time and space and every face,
I should have known.
Why am I here, still alone?
Another one has gone
Away from me like I was the worst disease…
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
call her one, me other fly,
we are tapers too, and at our own cost die,
and we in us find the Eagle and the Dove.
The Phoenix riddle, hath more witt
by us; we two being one, are it.
So to one neutral thing both sexes fit,
we die and rise the same, and prove
mysterious by this love.
(Donne)
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
i do not print words
that sing to words,
i write figures on figures,
minding sums instead,
my thoughts are wasted,
spent on 50 notes
of no real value,
id rather lose a mind to writers,
poets winding words on reels,
sailing my consciousness,
to the otherside of dreams.
thankyou for your inspirations exhale and finsbury, i get tingles from the beauty of your writing. ive been lost among this thread for hours now, reading and re-reading. (i was particularly amused by the literary debate in the middle!)
lol lucy
and then you'll find,
the dreams you lost....
...I once wrote.
this is not MY thread. I´m posting my poems for people to read and relate, otherwise I´d just keep them for myself.
it´s great if people response to my words; good, bad - doesn´t matter but it´s always a sign that you´ve noticed... something.
thank you LL for your contribution, you´re always welcome.
the sun is shining again for me on this cloudy day
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Trying, in the faces, similarities to find,
Hitting shoulders, repeating: my apologies´,
I feel Venus cursing people just for fun again.
“For a woman to make love is ill”
Musella cried so desperate in want for him,
In this different world of ours that is still
An emblem of a confused woman´s mind
Cause most of them could Lissius be named,
Racists, sexists, homophobic and too proud.
It doesn´t happen every day
That people would admit their simple way;
He found the courage in his words
To put down the true facts about his girl:
Compared her eyes to nothing like the sun,
Looked for red in her cheeks but the colour´s gone,
Her smile, her breath couldn´t change the image,
So incomplete, so normal is her posture.
I´m sure it´s possible to find oneself in his lines,
In the survey of his maiden´s sight
But could you summarize your love in a brief, short verse,
Confess your soul with nothing more but a couplet?
It is fascinating – he still knows
That prejudice would always take main roles
That every one of us would always be compared
To diamonds, pearls and golden coins;
And we do the same…
I believe the author would prefer
To publish happy ending of the play,
If only she would be allowed to say:
Hey, I love YOU, I love you not!
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Thanks for this. I enjoyed it and caught the references! They were nicely worked into the text.
there´s actually little difference in the periods of time,
just another disguise ...
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
can you hear it?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
… clank of milk bottles at the door
… restless sea stroking blue stones at the coast of Aldeburgh
… melody of silence in the green fields near Rickinghall
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Lovely stuff, exhale.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Oh! exhale lovely! I can hear the melody of silence.
"If songs were lines in a conversation
The situation would be fine."
Well, then, let us all make our poetry converse.
amen, Prof. Fins!
Aldeburgh, and Southwold too
if I hadn´t touched the grounds, I´d not believe
that these places actually exist
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
is this dyaogirl responding to my words?
wow,
thank you
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.